It Won't Let Go
by TheReturned
Summary: Post-TRF, Johnlock. John is a broken man since Sherlock jumped, still living in 221B, still working at the surgery but doing very little else. This is not what Sherlock had expected to happen. How will John cope when he learns the truth? Rating for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello all. New one from me, another Johnlocky post-TRF, but this time it'll be a multi-chapter fic. I have the plot laid out in my head and, for once, I actually know where a fic is going from the first chapter. Hooray! This fic is very much inspired by the wonderful TheVenturer's first chapter of her new, brilliant drabble series - please go and read! The inspiration will become clearer in the next few chapters.**

**Anyway, there won't be loads of authors notes as I think they often get in the way, so I'll get everything said now - I will aim to update this at least weekly, I would really appreciate reviews, feedback, etc and will respond to anything anyone asks (just because the plot is laid out, doesn't mean I'm not open to suggestions!) and I really hope you enjoy this.**

**E x**

* * *

"Back to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes."

And though he would never admit it, Sherlock felt a wave of bliss - despite his current predicament - overwhelm his whole being at his older brother's words. Back to Baker Street. Back to his old life.

Back to John?

* * *

"And what about John Watson?" he asked, as casually as he could muster, buttoning his pristine white shirt and marvelling at how comfortable it felt to be back in his formal clothes after all this time. Mycroft was leaning against the desk, one eyebrow raised pointedly.

"What about him?"

"Well, I assume you've been keeping tabs on him all this time," Sherlock retorted, admiring himself, and his cuffs, in the mirror. A good scrub clean, a shave and a nice suit did wonders.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but leaned across the desk and reached for a small pile of papers which he handed to Sherlock. "He's still at 221B. Keeps himself to himself, apart from going to work and the occasional drink with your DI. Returned to his therapist after three months, still sees her every fortnight as far as I know. He suffered," Mycroft stated bluntly, as Sherlock flicked through the bullet pointed information on his friend, and felt his stomach lurch at the few covert photos of him, still clearly devastated. "I would advise caution before you leap back into his life, Sherlock."

"But that... that's impossible," Sherlock heard himself stutter, but refused to acknowledge it. "Didn't he meet someone? Make more friends, meet a woman? John was always very good at meeting women, and without me around to sabotage anything-"

"No dates. No new friends. Nothing," Mycroft said. "I would have told you but I didn't want to distract you from the case in hand, and besides, brother dear," he said almost sarcastically, as Sherlock cast an accusing look at him. "You never asked."

He never asked. It was completely true. He had never once asked Mycroft about the state of John Watson, for he did not want to know that he had moved on with his life, was out every night, had got engaged, or even married. He didn't want to know that John had moved on from him, forgotten about him. Sherlock had been absolutely positive that this was the news he would have heard, had he asked. Somewhere, somehow, he had made a huge error.

"Get me an appointment to see him," Sherlock said suddenly, turning to fully face his brother, the sheaths of paper forgotten in his hand. "I can't read him from this, not properly. I need to see him before he knows who I am."

"At the surgery?"

"Of course."

"For what purpose? Why do you need to read him?"

"I..." Sherlock tailed off, earning himself another raised eyebrow from his brother. "I just... it's important that I do this, Mycroft."

"You'd go in disguise?"

"Of course I'd go in disguise," he snapped, beginning to pace now. "I need to assess the situation, deduce what his reaction will be. The last thing I want is to give the man a heart attack."

Mycroft folded his arms, a small smirk dancing around his thin lips. "This is all very... caring of you, Sherlock," he said, trying not to look too smug. "Quite unlike the Sherlock I know. Has being away all this time changed you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't go expecting heartfelt platitudes from me, Mycroft," he scoffed. "John saved my life, on several occasions, and has stuck by me when no one else would. Not even you," he pointed out, raising his eyes to meet the steely grey ones of his brother. "Of course I care about him."

Mycroft sighed, but did not comment on Sherlock's little speech, instead reaching for his mobile. "I am sure I can arrange an undercover meeting for you and your Doctor," he said simply. "I don't want you forgetting our little London terrorist issue, however."

"Of course not," he replied, glancing back down at the photo of John on top of the pile. "I am sure I will work better with John at my side."

* * *

"Who's this?" John asked, pointing at a name on his screen as Sarah bustled in. Doctor Watson had made a point of learning all there was to know about his patients - not that he had much else to do in his life these days. His patients all adored him for that very reason - they all felt important to him, and liked how he was able to remember practically everything about their patient history whilst barely consulting with his screen. He prided himself on knowing all of his patients' names, but this one, a Mr. William Scott, eluded him. He clicked on the name to bring up the patient history, but all he got was a blank screen.

"New patient," Sarah said, glancing over his shoulder as she looked for something in a drawer. "Asked for you specifically."

John ran his hand across his face. "I thought I wasn't taking on any new pa... wait, what? He asked for me specifically?"

Sarah nodded. "That's right. Said he'd heard good things about you."

John blinked owlishly at her. "And you thought that sounded perfectly normal? New patient, no details about him at all, and he asked for me? How would he know about me if he's new?" John frowned. "This must be a fan, someone who followed me when I was very briefly famous. Wants some gossip about Sherlock. Or... or someone who wants to tell me how awful he was, what a fraud he was. Someone who wants to crow..."

Sarah touched his arm gently, soothingly, and waited until he looked up at her.

"John," she said calmly, squeezing his arm slightly in reassurance. "It's just a new patient. I've checked out the details he's given us, they're just not up on the system yet. He knows people who come to this surgery and they recommended you. He seems like a sweet... old man," she said, and John picked up on her very slight hesitance.

"Old man?"

"I... I think he's old."

John pursed his lips. "You _think_ he's old?"

"Well, it was hard to tell. You know how rubbish I am at guessing peoples ages. He could have been 70. Or maybe 40. I don't know, it was dark..."

"...In the well-lit reception?"

Sarah grimaced. "Look, John. I promise you this isn't a fan or a crazy person who wants to stalk you. He's just a nice person who wants to see you because he's heard good things about you, okay?"

John sighed. "You're very lucky I have a patient who has just this minute turned up," he said, indicating the flashing alert on his screen. "We'll talk about this later. I'm not happy about taking on new patients, you promised me this w-"

"Okay, okay John. We'll talk later, I'm sorry. But he's booked in now, he'll be here in an hour. Just get through the appointment and if you're not keen, I'll transfer him to someone else, okay?"

The suspicious look had not left John's face, but he nodded. "Fine. Send in Mrs. Smyth on your way out."

* * *

"Sarah, remind me to never, _ever _use you as a covert operative."

She glared at the man stood in her office. "You're bloody lucky I agreed to this, Sherlock," she reminded him, still not completely over her shock from a couple of hours before. "And if you do hurt or upset John, I will not be held responsible for my actions."

Sherlock nodded. "Fair enough. What time is the appointment?"

"11.30." She glanced at the clock. "You've got thirty minutes to get ready. What _are _you dressing up like?"

"I brought several different disguises," he said, motioning towards the small case propped up by the door. "I'll try them on, you tell me which one works best. Okay?"

Sarah nodded, then couldn't help a small smile gracing her features. "You know, after the initial shock - and there will be shock, Sherlock, and possibly some heated words," she warned him, "I really think he's going to be delighted. He's... he's really struggled since you..."

Sherlock nodded. "So I've heard." He glanced at her. "Has he ever confided in you, or are you going on gut instinct?"

Sarah bit her lip, and suddenly her face became frustratingly unreadable. "I think you need to speak with John - preferably not here, by the way, although I guess there is a chance he will see through your disguise," she admitted. "I don't want to have to throw freezing water over the pair of you."

"You really think it's going to be that bad, hmm?" he said, bending down to retrieve his first costume.

Sarah nodded slightly. "Put yourself in his shoes for once, Sherlock. How would _you _feel? I know you had to do it to save his life, and he will understand that, I'm sure. But he grieved for you, hugely. He's still completely devastated. How do you think, honestly, he'll feel when he first realises what's happening?"

Sherlock sat back on his heels, and gazed up at Sarah. "I don't know," he admitted, chewing slightly on his bottom lip. "That's why I'm going through this massive rigmarole. Maybe it would be best if he never found out what really happened."

Sarah knitted her eyebrows together. "Look, Sherlock," she said, in a voice that was verging on severely pissed off. "I've agreed to let you do this, breaking god knows how many rules in the process. I've agreed to let you tell John, as soon as you think is possible, what's really going on. But if you come out of that room with even the slightest inclination that you will never reveal your true identity to that man, I will personally turn you on your heel, march you back in there and pull off whatever ridiculous disguise you're wearing myself. Am I making myself clear?"

Sherlock couldn't help the admiring grin forming on his face. "Crystal," he replied, somehow both mockingly and yet also quite sincerely.

* * *

Patients not turning up was a huge bone of contention for Doctor John Watson, but his 11.20 was a no-show and, for once in his life, he was pleased. It meant he had ten minutes to think, to prepare himself for this new patient that Sarah had evidently forced upon him. He only wished that he, too, would fail to show up, but he guessed that that was incredibly unlikely.

He smiled sadly to himself. This was not him. Nervous about meeting a new patient? The John Watson from two years ago would be ashamed. He would have folded his arms and raised one eyebrow, staring him down. He knew this. And yet he couldn't bring himself to even try to do anything about it.

Therapy no longer helped. The only thing that temporarily gave him some comfort, some release from the pain he was feeling, was alcohol. Having witnessed his own sister spiral down that slippery slope, he knew better than to follow that very tempting road himself. He limited his alcoholic intake as best he could, knowing that Mrs. Hudson was also keeping a careful eye on him. And Greg stopped by every so often, sometimes to ask for his still relatively valid opinion on cases, but more often than not for a chat, a small drink and a manly awkward hug at the end.

"Two years," he breathed, staring blankly at his computer screen. It shouldn't take this long to get over a friend. A good friend. Even a best friend. There was grieving, and missing someone, and then there was this. This hollow, aching chasm that he had experienced ever since that daft bastard had gone and killed himself. After two years, he'd given up any hope that the pain would get any less than the level it was currently at - not as acute as the days and weeks after the event, but still there, pressing urgently against his very soul.

He was startled out of his reverie by the alert on his computer. He glanced down to the bottom corner. It appeared his new patient was in the building, and ready to be seen.


	2. Chapter 2

The easiest solution, it had been decided, was to allow Sarah in on the plan. She could fabricate records, ensure that Sherlock saw John as opposed to the handful of other doctors in the practice, and would be on hand to assist John, should the mask slip, as it very much were. Sherlock hadn't been thrilled with the idea at first but, despite Sarah's slight mishap when talking to John about Mr. Scott, he was now glad that she had been involved.

Going along with her indiscretion, Sherlock had opted for a charming fake moustache and a greying wig, along with a flat cap. He had donned a rather shoddy looking coat and practiced walking with a slight stoop, which Sarah proclaimed "perfect". Still not convinced that this get-up was going to fool John, he had, at the allotted time, shuffled into the waiting room, and there he sat, staring at the clock as the big hand reached the six, wondering what on earth would happen in the proceeding five minutes.

But why _wouldn't _it fool John, he pondered. It wasn't as if John was on the lookout for him. John thought he was dead. The sudden realisation of that fact struck him like a ten-ton weight. He had never thought about it for very much time before, not allowing himself the pleasure of ever thinking about John in any way for any length of time, lest he get distracted by the many tasks he had at hand. Even if Sherlock wandered in there, complete with disguise but doing little to hide his tone of voice or his speech, John wasn't going to be seriously wondering whether it could be Sherlock, was he? John had felt his pulse, or lack thereof. John had seen him being taken away. John "knew" that Sherlock was dead and buried two years ago.

Glancing up at the clock, he saw he wouldn't have long to wait as the hand hit the six and, in the same breath, an alert flashed on the screen above. WILLIAM SCOTT, PLEASE GO TO ROOM 5.

Sherlock was suddenly filled with an overwhelming urge to flee from the building, away from London and back into hiding. This wasn't fair on John. If he left, and never returned, John would be none the wiser. He would never have to know that Sherlock wasn't dead.

Except for Sarah, of course. Sarah would keep to her word, and tell him.

Whilst briefly conjuring up a colourful variety of ways in which he could, if he was so inclined, ensure that Sarah never spoke to anybody ever again, Sherlock rose from his chair and, keeping in character, moved slowly in the direction of John Watson's room. After taking a few steps along the corridor, he hesitated at door number five, staring it down. Behind that door was John, the only person who'd ever meant anything to him. Was he about to destroy that man's faith in him completely?

"Come in."

Sherlock physically jumped at the sudden sound of John's voice, cutting through his reverie like a knife through butter. His hand gripped the cool door knob. It was show time.

* * *

The first thing that struck Sherlock, before he'd barely made it into the room, was how much Doctor John Watson had aged. It radiated off his very being, from every pore, to the point that it hurt Sherlock more than he could stand to look at him. John was looking up at him, taking in this new patient, one eyebrow raised (_he's thinking back to what Sarah said, wondering how she could have thought I was anything other than old) _before glancing at his computer screen.

"Mr... Scott, yes? Hello, I'm Doctor Watson. I don't normally see new patients, but I heard you asked for me specifically?"

_Panic. What to say in response? How is my voice supposed to sound again?_

"Hello Doctor," Sherlock muttered, offering a hand and then immediately panicking. John would recognise his hand. He absolutely would.

But John did not react to Sherlock's hand, other than briefly shaking it before motioning to him to take a seat. Sherlock remembered just in time to include his stoop as he made his way towards the chair, and then turned to face John as the doctor sat down, leaning back slightly in his own chair and turning his attention to his patient.

_Eyes are sunken, he's not slept properly in a long time. Gaunt, thinner than before - not eating. Signs of not coping as well as he normally does, fingernails bitten, shirt ironed carelessly - no real care whether he looks smart or not. Hair is greying, probably due to getting older. Shoes are..._

"How can I help you today then, Mr Scott?" John asked, pleasantly enough, but Sherlock sensed the wariness in his voice. Sarah had warned him that John was expecting a Sherlock nut. He was hoping that the "older man" disguise might put John off that concern, but it appeared not.

"I... your manager alerted me... told me that it was commonplace for new patients to have vitals checked," Sherlock rasped out, adopting a huskier tone.

_Slight twitch to eyes, he's latched onto some recognition but it's subconscious at best..._

John nodded, clearly expecting this, and swivelled back towards his computer screen, bringing up a new window. "Height?" he asked.

_Not showing any real signs of friendliness, uncomfortable with new patient... very unlike the old John, he seems nervous, on edge._

"One metre eighty-four."

"Weight?"

Sherlock shifted slightly. "I'm... not sure."

"We'll check that in a minute. Now, I'll need to quickly check your blood pressure..." John pushed himself off the chair and went to retrieve a cuff. Sherlock gazed at the back of his head, wondering whether this had been his best idea. Sarah had been adamant that he needed to reveal himself in as gentle a way as possible - she had a doctor on standby, thanks to the help of Mycroft, to take over should John feel the need to return home after such a revelation. Sherlock had absolutely no idea how he was going to go about it.

"Right," said John, returning to Sherlock and putting on a stethoscope. "Could you roll up your sleeve please, Mr Scott?"

Without thinking, Sherlock pulled up the baggy sleeve of his coat, revealing his rather tanned arms. He closed his eyes, trying to determine the best course of action. How to tell his friend, who was quite clearly grieving in the most extreme way, still, that he was not actually dead.

After a few seconds, he realised that nothing was happening - no sound being made, no cuff being wrapped around his arm. He opened his eyes and saw that John was staring, immobile, at his arm that he had just proffered. He glanced down, and felt his heart skidding to a halt.

It had been a case, just before Sherlock had "died". There had been a fight - a harsh, physical fight, and the abductor of the little girl that Sherlock had somehow managed to find was angry. He'd been beaten, eventually, by John, but not before he'd produced a knife from somewhere on his person, and carved a deep gash lengthways down Sherlock's arm. It had bled for a very long time, had needed stitches - stitches that John had sewn, of course - and had left a scar. A scar that John was now staring at, with abject horror in his eyes.

Sherlock sat up a bit. "Err-"

"Who are you?" John asked, eyes flashing as he turned to Sherlock with sudden venom. "I'd guessed you were some insane fan, but when I saw you hobble in here, I'd thought there was no way an old man like you would even know who I was. But you're so deranged that you even copied his scar?"

Sherlock bit his lip. "Look, I can explain..."

John hadn't even noticed Sherlock's voice changing. He was on a roll now.

"What do you want from me, hmm? Do you want to ask me loads of questions about my life with Sherlock Holmes? Do you want to laugh as I fall apart in tears, telling you how much I miss him every single day of my life? Do you want to mock me as I tell you how I've seriously considered ending it all, that I can't comprehend how I'm failing to get through my life without him? Do you want to silently take note as I spill out everything to you, a faceless stranger with an obsession with my best friend?"

John stepped back then, moved towards his books, trying to hide the anguish on his face. But Sherlock saw. And Sherlock decided, there and then, that anything was better than what John was thinking at that moment. Even the truth.

"I'm not a stranger, John," he said quietly, watching as John's shoulders slumped, still turned away from him. "I don't want to do any of those things. I just want to come home."

John turned slowly as Sherlock carefully removed the flat cap, wig and moustache. He stared as Sherlock stood, forgoing the stoop, standing up tall and watching John warily.

"I'm dreaming," John muttered, casting his eyes downwards and pushing one hand to his forehead. "I'm fucking dreaming."

"I can assure you, you're definitely not dreaming," Sherlock said quietly, wondering if he should maybe sit down again, now his presence was affirmed.

"This has happened so many times," John replied, his voice sounding broken and hollow. "Why on earth should I believe that you're real now?"

Sherlock had always presumed that the general consensus was correct; he was a freak, he was emotionless, and he didn't have the ability to care about anyone. But in that moment, when John admitted that he'd dreamt up Sherlock returning, he knew that wasn't true, as he felt himself cursing the day he'd left John Watson to suffer the way he clearly had for the past two years.

"I can call Sarah in," he said, still quietly, still carefully. "She'll confirm my existence."

John shook his head, before raising it to look back at Sherlock. Then slowly, carefully, as if worried he'd scare him away, he reached out and laid his palm against Sherlock's arm, his eyes widening as he made contact.

"I've... I've never been able to touch you before," he explained, as Sherlock glanced down at his hand. "It's really you?"

"It's really me," Sherlock agreed, not sure whether to chance a smile. This reaction was nothing like he'd expected, and now, seeing the relief and joy radiating from John's face, he knew that his chances of getting punched in the face were lessening by the second. That wasn't to say the time wouldn't come, but the fact that John was happy to see him, that joy was his first obvious emotion... that had to be a good thing, surely?

John removed his hand then, and suddenly looked almost bashful. "I... Sherlock, I can't get my head round this..."

"I don't expect you to," he assured him quickly. "I've been told by a few people that I need to allow you time to get used to it. I think Mycroft thought I'd be returning with two black eyes and a broken nose."

John smiled slightly. "I... I'm sorry if my reaction seems a little subdued," he said. "I'm still not entirely sure that this isn't a dream."

Sherlock nodded, finding himself understanding exactly what John meant. "Sarah has organised cover for you if you want to come back to Baker Street with me just now. I was thinking you'd... have questions."

John nodded, a little dazedly. "I guess I will do," John said. "My brain really isn't working at present. It's not every day your best friend comes back from the dead."

Best friend. John had already called him that, albeit when he thought he was talking to someone else. The words warmed him in a way that Sherlock hadn't felt in many years, and he felt himself grinning, a little manically.

"I guess there is also still a chance that the rage will come and I'll give you those black eyes your brother was banking on."

"I promise you, I had excellent reason for everything I did," Sherlock said quickly. "And I'll explain everything back at Baker Street." He suddenly felt a real hurry to get John out of the surgery, and into Mycroft's car, which would hopefully be waiting outside for them, before John had second thoughts.

"Yeah, I'm sure. But two years, Sherlock." John gazed up at him. "That's a bloody long time. I missed you, a hell of a lot."

Sherlock went to respond, but something about John's stance, the way he was looking at him, caught his eye. Frantically, he retreated into his John Files within his Mind Palace. The Different Ways John Watson Has Looked At Me. Rage appeared lots, in different forms. Admiration was there, as well as something resembling fondness, exasperation and panic. But this look, this current one, was new.

John had already moved on by the time Sherlock returned, having filed the expression to be examined later. He was reaching for his coat, and turned back to Sherlock, smiling slightly.

"Shall we?"


End file.
